


I See Red

by HappilyInhuman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Case Fic, M/M, Multi-Case Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappilyInhuman/pseuds/HappilyInhuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a dramatic struggle with his sexuality. He builds a relationship with Sherlock, and a lot of cases ensue along the way. Eventual Johnlock. References to the books not vital to your understanding of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With Outrageous Precision

The man who is about to die is a multibillionaire business man who has put more money into the government than all charitable people have put to charities around the country combined this past year.

Mister Alexander Dobbae cares not for the average man. He has not time for the middle class, and he definitely has not time for the poor man on the corner of the street. Alexander Dobbae prays for another tax cut while the poor man on the corner of the street prays for food. He puts out his empty cup to the man who parades the streets as if he owns them, dressed up in his custom fit designer suit. The man has more money than he knows what to do with, and yet he turns the hungry man away from him without giving so much as a pence.

Two dark, deep hazelnut coloured eyes watch disapprovingly from the opposite side of the busy London street. The man watching waits impatiently for the traffic to halt before he crosses the street and drops ten euro into the hungry man’s cup. He smiles at the hungry man as he thanks him to no end, but he quickly moves to continue on after the heartless multibillionaire.

Alexander does not walk the streets, he practically glides. He is prideful as he walks straight, his head held high and his cane put to barely any use. His coat tails flow behind him. In the twenty first century only the rich truly use such long coat tails, using them as if they are a social status. The hazel eyed man sneers at the man’s back as he continues to stare with a look on his face with speaks that he severely lacks entertainment. This man is a bore to him, and yet, he must meet his end here.

It is dark now as Mister Dobbae enters his large mansion on the very outskirts of the city where it is calm and quiet.

Hazel eyed watches him as if he is a hawk watching his prey, and in a way he is eying his prey, simply waiting until he can sink his teeth into it. A clean pair of gloves is slipped on and a brand new-three times cleaned-lock and pick are slid from a pocket. Within moments the back door has opened for the home’s intruder, releasing its master’s secrets. Hazel eyes exits the moonlit backdrop and into the office, removing a torch from another hidden compartment on his person.

It seems that in Alexander Dobbae’s life there is no gray area, simply an endless façade to cover a lifetime of incredibly evil deeds. His secret transactions send tremors through hazel eyed’s body. He turns the torch off and returns it to his pocket with a silent sigh.

Alexander returned home through the front door of his residence, heading up one of the grand staircases and entering one of the twenty humungous bedrooms and headed straight into the conjoined bathroom.

He doesn’t flick the light switch for a few moments, and when he does he sees the dark, silent figure which had followed him effortlessly up the stairs. He has not time to scream before a knife had pierced him, held in the left hand for a seemingly effortless cut, but aimed to seem as though it had been inflicted from the right hand of the attacker. “Pride” The attacker whispered in an ear as the man sinks to his knees, “The root of all other sins.”

“Greed,” He continues, as the man continues to breathe raggedly, and hazel eyed man removes the blade and drives it painfully back in just below-he ignores the cry of anguish as the man’s head comes to rest on the cold hard bathroom floor, “All the same: A deep rooted desire, an excess, an intense selfishness, a self centredness so strong it touches every corner of your life.”

“You could have given ten euro,” He removes the blade and drives it back it, “You could afford to give a hundred euro.” He repeats the stabbing cycle, “In fact, you could have afforded to give a thousand euro, no, ten thousand euro. You are a multibillionaire after all, Mister Dubbae. Instead…you gave zero euro to the starving man. Now you die.”

The attacker, took a sweep of his eyes over the body as the light disappeared from the man’s eyes. He leant down carefully and removed three blonde hairs with his gloved hands, tucking them carefully into his own pocket. He removed a plastic bag from the other pocket and when he removed the dagger he placed it in the bag. He tucked it away. He took out a cigarette, taking care to not let even a bit of tobacco touch him. He placed it on the very edge of the counter and lit it, taking care to ensure he was out of the room before it really got burning well. He must not smell of cigar smoke.

On the way from the scene he went through the back and crossed several yards before emerging to the street, hands in his pockets. The streets were almost deserted, the dark velvety sky and the clouds few loomed above. They contrasted with the orange street lights which shown upon the stones on the walk. He entered the city and when he reached the centre he came to a bridge over the great waters where he leant over gently. It wasn’t a grand bridge, only a minor one, which led to a lack of street lights upon it. Hazel eyed smirked as he threw the murder weapon over the edge where it promptly sank like a stone.

“A smoker. Right handed.” Sherlock exclaimed loudly. “The multibillionaire has no record of continuous, or even experimental usage of tobacco.” Unknown to Sherlock, of course, this was precisely what the murderer had planned him to believe.

John’s facial expression remained stoic, showing no reaction, until Sherlock, had, of course, begun to sniff the crime scene dramatically, which prompted John to raise one eyebrow at him as he wearily looked up from his notepad.

After several moments Sherlock had rushed past him and he turned to follow him out, Lestrade remaining behind at the scene of the killing. They traversed the hallway before descending down the left grand staircase and entering the office where the desk was scattered with papers and credit cards, unlocked drawers full of checks and unmarked bills.

Sherlock wasted no time in uncovering the secret business interactions which were hidden in a locked bottom drawer after discovering the key sitting on a small ridge in the wood where the desk ended, the wood curving downward and creating a small spiral where small items could be stashed. Sherlock maintained a look of mild surprise and irritation as he continued to uncover smaller things, such as another pile of bank notes, a stash of Canadian and American dollar bills, checks, and several golden bars. The majority of these things were easily found, even for a man with as little wit as John.

“Well…” Sherlock remarked, his eyebrows furrowed. John glanced up from his pad again, looking at Sherlock in a slight question. “Well,” He began to speak quite quickly as was his usual, “Why might one kill a multibillionaire and not touch the money, the notes, the golden bars, the credit cards…perhaps-since it seems Alexander had his fair share of money in politics-political reasons for murder…however, it seems by these notes that no one outside of the member of parliament who was being paid knew about the entire ordeal.”

John remained quiet, unsure precisely how to react to the words, so he simply remained looking at Sherlock intently.

“What else do you believe could possibly have led someone to murdering him? Mister William Genman could never have done such a thing, after all, he did not know who had committed his brother’s murder.” John asked him, though he knew Sherlock would most likely guess it could possibly be revenge anyhow. Mister Alexander Dobbae had been in many brawls throughout his years, several of them victimizing entire families of less nobility and wealth than himself. He had not married, but had once attempted to black mail a Duke into allowing him to wed his daughter, it was, unfortunately prior to the rather recent outlaw of arranged marriage in the United Kingdom. It wasn’t until 2012 that new laws made parents who caused arranged marriage face jail time for their mistreatment, and Mister Dobbae’s attempt at getting a wife through arranged marriage-and blackmail-had taken place in 2008 or earlier perhaps.

 

 

Research of the man had taken place much earlier that week when another murder had taken place.

White fog came forth from the contents of a bright, yet boring cup of tea. It was a pure white with a glaze, making the dim light of a rainy day in London gleam cleanly off of the rim. The drinker of said tea, of course, had grown bored of the cup and focused instead on the words of his guest, coming quickly with a deep and sombre tone. The guest himself was dressed quite eccentrically, his royal purple dress suit dark and handsome, but in his rush to leave the house that morning, it seemed, he had grabbed a bright neon yellow handkerchief rather than one which might match. As a result Sherlock knew he’d gotten up quite early, and had left his home in an amazing rush. He must have gotten on the first train to London.

“I got up in the morning,” He choked the beginning to his story, “I wore my pajamas down to the kitchen, it was about five o’ clock and I was going to fix myself breakfast before dressing for the day. I live in the country side, you see, and there aren’t too many people around, but when I arrived downstairs I found a window smashed in and a letter on the table. It was in code.”

Sherlock looked at him, “You’re quite distraught for it to simply be due to the note. Perhaps something accompanied this note?”

“My brother,” The man was choking again, “He died the day before. Though, he hadn’t simply died. They found him with his throat cut. Here’s the note.” He handed the note to Sherlock who thought he could have laughed when he realised how easy of a code it was.

YURNXOAEET

“It says, ‘You are next.’” Sherlock whispered, “I don’t know who this man thought he could fool with this code…oh wait, you couldn’t read it.” He smirked at the man who was shaking in the chair across from Sherlock.

“So he’s saying, he’s going to kill me too?”

“Most likely.”

“So…” The man asked, “I would really rather not die any time soon!”

“Well then,” Sherlock said, “This case seems easy already, it won’t keep me very long-but, as I have no other cases I suppose I can help. I’ll need to know where your brother was killed. Then I can see the crime scene, talk to any police officers who were first on the scene, and then we can see where this goes.” He sighed.

Of course the next day found Sherlock down in the English countryside, and John Watson at his side as usual. The manor owned by the rich man’s brother was large, and the police were still around the place although it was two days after his murder. There was a maid descending down the stairs as they entered the manor with one of the police officers, and as she seemed quite upset Sherlock made note to speak with her later on that day.

“There isn’t much crime around these parts,” The officer began, “The yard is almost never called.”

“I understand. About what time in the morning were you contacted?”

“The maid, she made a phone call before taking a car down to us.”

“Was she as distraught?”

“Much more so. She was in tears the whole way there as she tells it to us. She says she woke in the morning as usual and went about her morning routine, and when she exited the servants’ quarters she could smell a foul stench. She said as she approached the kitchen she could begin to distinguish the coppery smell of blood in it. She says it was particularly nauseating. At first I barely believed her, because you require a quite substantial amount of blood in order to smell it…but when we arrived on scene, blood was spilt everywhere, you might of thought he cut more than just the throat, but we couldn’t make out any other cuts on the body.”

“Did you find anything near the body at all?”

“Well we found a note, but it’s all poppycock.”

“May I see?”

The police officer took out a small evidence bag with a blood smeared open note inside, and Sherlock read:

VLR TEL PQBXIP TFII DBQ TEXQ VLR ABPBQSB.

“It says, ‘You who steal will get what you deserve.’ It’s a simple Caesar cipher.” Sherlock remarked, “Whoever killed this man did it for revenge.”

The maid was quickly approaching them, tears still clinging sadly to her eye lashes. The small group of men turned to face her, Sherlock and John immediately each shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. My name is Anna Dantane.” She smiled sadly at him, “William’s brother informed me you would be coming to help us discover whoever did this.”

“Yes.” He replied, “I would like to speak to you about what happened that morning.”

“I will do whatever you need of me. I want to be as much a help as I can be.”

The two went into William’s uninhabited living room and sat on the couches. John followed closely behind them and sat down next to Sherlock. “So,” Sherlock began slowly, “What exactly did you see that morning, and at what time.”

It was about eight in the morning when I finally left my room. Then I smelled the immense amount of blood. I felt sick but wanted to find out where the smell was coming from. As I progressed I began to realise that the smell I smelt was blood. In the kitchen, there was a small pool of it the body was in, and it was splattered upon the walls as well. It was all fresh, and it was a ghastly sight, William sitting there with his head barely on, it must have been held by a thread I swear.”

“So he was practically beheaded?”

“Yes. Very close to.”

“Do you have any idea how the killer entered the house.”

“Yes, all the doors were locked, so he smashed the window in the kitchen. There was glass on the floor, even beneath the body it seems. Barely any glass was left on the frame at all.”

Sherlock turned his head toward his companion, “John, do you have a bandage on you?”

John did, he knew he did, though where on him it was he wasn’t sure. He dug through his pockets until he found it and handed it to Sherlock. He then hesitantly reached out for the maid’s arm and put the bandage on a previously unnoticed, quite large cut. She gulped nervously.

“18 4 26 13 7 2 12 6 9 13 8 7 26 2 12 6 7 12 9 2 12 6 23 18 22 7 12 12, 14 9. 19 12 15 14 22 8.” She cried, reading from a note she had taken from her pocket before waving it at us in desperation, “A note I was made to write for you to be used later on.”

“I had John bring his gun so don’t move a muscle until I get the police.”

“Okay, okay, stop! I can promise you it wasn’t me who killed William, the killer just forced me to give him codes. You see…although I didn’t kill him, it’s still my fault William is dead because I let his murder walk right into the house unnoticed. I broke the window to cover up the fact that I had unknowingly invited a murderer into our home. I’m so sorry! I never meant for William to get hurt!” She was crying all over herself again, her nose and mouth running.

“What was your connection to the murderer?”

“He was courting me,” She sniffled, “Now, though, I know he was using me to get inside the house, and eventually to write his nasty codes! He started threatening me as soon as he was over the threshold and inside the house. He swore William and his brother stole an heirloom of his family’s, but I highly doubt that! William was a good man!” She was screaming in her anger now.

“Then why were you protecting him? You could have said you saw him do it.”

“I did see him do it, but I was too ashamed to say so. I brought such misfortune upon William’s family…”

“And you can fix it by providing them closure-which would be his murderer behind bars.”

She looked at my companion uneasily before replying, “I just can’t say it.” She was continuing to cry into her lap, her hands gripping each other uneasily. “I just can’t do it.”

“Sherlock,” John said sharply, and he turned toward the officer afterward as he muttered, “Sir, may I have a moment alone with the lady please?” The two men cleared the room, sparing him interested glances as they did so. Sherlock had looked as if he had wanted to protest in the doorway, but John’s glance told him that he could handle the situation. “I know how you must feel, Anna.” He said, using her first name to make her feel safe, “However, you could never have known how much of a monster the man was. He only showed you what he wanted you to see.”

“I know.” She replied, “I just feel this strange responsibility either way. I could have told William as soon as I found out. I could have cried for him to get out of the house as the man charged into the kitchen—”

“—but you were afraid, you were paralyzed by your terror. It happens to people all the time, and I can assure you it was not your fault.” John only felt anger welling up in his stomach, how dare this cruel, absolutely horrid man use this poor, innocent, defenseless young woman? “None of this is your fault, Anna, please-” he took her hands in between his own to plead with her, “-just tell me who committed this atrocity.”

She bowed her head in resignation while saying, “It was Mister Alexander Dobbae, he is from the city of London, but owns a country home down the road.”

“Thank you.” John said, squeezing her hands gently before releasing them and leaving her sat there, “I promise you-” he said as he turned back to look at her properly, “-this man will meet punishment for his evil deeds.” He was exiting just as Sherlock had reappeared in the doorway, giving him the signature, eyebrow raised only slightly facial expression which he seemed to wear much more often than completely necessary.

“What did you discover?” Sherlock questioned him as they left the mansion, the sky still cloudy with clouds so thick there was no possibility of the sun reappearing any time soon. Sherlock was wrapping his dark purple scarf around his neck as he asked the question, though he continued to stare forward.

“The man we’re looking for is Mister Alexander Dobbae, the multibillionaire.” John replied, glancing over at his companion with weary, exhausted, and uncharacteristically depressed eyes. “I hated speaking to her,” he admitted, “It saddens me. The way in which he seemingly messed with her head to make her feel as if she were somehow connected, as if she were somehow partially responsible for William’s death.”

“I’ve told you once, John, and I’ll tell you once again, caring for her and becoming overly emotional is not going to help her.” He insisted as he and John were pressed up against one another in the back of a taxi. He slammed the door before glancing at the back of John’s neck as he had leant over to pull his seat belt before quickly looking away to avoid John’s detection as he turned forward once again.

 

John’s memory suddenly turned back toward the situation in front of him, Sherlock looking over the notes upon the desk one last time before deciding that there was nothing to be found there. He gestured for John to follow him and he trekked back through the kitchen, through the main hall and out the front door. They climbed into a taxi as they had previously, and they sat side by side until they reached their flat, climbing out and heading up the stairs together. Holmes immediately sat down in his chair by the fireplace to think about the case at hand.

John allowed him to do so and went on to do some things of his own, such as beginning to make tea, having lunch, and beginning to write up the beginning of the current case.

Feeling adventurous today, he sat across from Sherlock rather than at the desk as he began to type away on his computer. He looked up at Sherlock a few times throughout the period of a silent hour, and each time Sherlock would be staring at him so intently while he thought that he would not even realise whenever John turned his pupils up toward him.

It was not until dinner time that pushed himself up and out of his chair, “Sherlock…” He said as Sherlock merely spared a glance upward at him, but otherwise acted as if he had heard nothing. “Sherlock, you have to come eat.” He insisted, placing a hand upon Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m stumped, John.” He replied, staring at the hand resting upon his shoulder as if he thought it would disappear.

“So then come eat, it may help you to think…” John replied.

Sherlock looked up to meet John’s eyes, the expression within them one full of wonder as Sherlock suddenly used his opposite hand to grasp the one upon his shoulder before biting back a small smile and saying wearily, “I suppose I should follow the doctor’s order then.” He rose from the chair without releasing the newly grasped hand, which he allowed to lead him into the kitchen before he dropped it and went about his business. John was honestly surprised, as usually Sherlock would be quite stubborn and refuse to follow his simple recommendations.

John couldn’t help but notice the way Sherlock’s eyes now seemed to follow his every movement around the kitchen as he scurried around to prepare them both a dinner. Suddenly Sherlock said John’s name and waited for John to turn toward him before continuing. “I have been thinking about more than simply this latest case. I am distracted.”

“By what?” John asked, looking up from the water he had begun to boil in order to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Other thoughts.” He replied sarcastically yet with the same stoic tone as he almost always found it fit to sport. He suddenly gave a small smile and sat at the table with the tea he had made, placing a cup at the side of the table opposite his own before opening a book he had taken from the living area when John most likely hadn’t been looking. John turned back to the water and ignored the happy nervousness that had settled itself at the pit of his stomach.


	2. A Peculiar Coincidence

“Hello, Mister Genman, this is Sherlock Holmes calling again.” John could hear Sherlock’s voice bellowing outward from the kitchen and out into the sitting room where John was currently sitting enjoying a steaming cup of tea. “I was hoping you might be willing to meet and discuss some recent developments in your case…Yes…Your brother’s maid had been able to give us some information…Some interesting developments occurred afterward…Your home, tomorrow at ten in the morning then…And please Mister Genman, do not fret too much, I have a feeling you are safe for the moment at least.”

The next morning was a mix of being pressed up against one another in the back of a taxi, and suddenly being only disappointed at the large amount space between them while they were on the train. John had, more recently, discovered an urge, an intense desire to be closer to Sherlock. Yet, even then, there were times when he would turn away from the consulting detective to feel his eyes scorch his skin as if they were flame throwers. If he were to turn back toward him, he would find something strange, akin to love in his eyes. He knew though, that it could not be love.

Mister Peter Genman had as large and impressive a home as that of his brother, a tall proud manor which dwarfed the surrounding buildings. The two approached the home and rang the bell, after which a butler immediately brought them in, as he had been informed of their expected arrival.

John and Sherlock were brought to the living room where Peter Genman was waiting, sitting on one of two exquisite couches, tea and cakes sat on the coffee table immediately in front of him. Sherlock and John walked forward, and he motioned for them to sit down, at which point they sat on the couch across from him, side by side. As Sherlock sat down beside John, John felt Sherlock press his own right thigh firmly against John’s left so that they touched as they sat. John showed no reaction, though he was sure his face burned.

“So Mister Genman,” Sherlock cut immediately to the chase, “Your brother’s maid, Anna admitted that she had, at the time of your brother’s murder, been courted by a Mister Alexander Dobbae, who owned a country home down the lane from your brother’s manor. She informed us that he had convinced her that your brother, as well as yourself had stolen a family heirloom from him. She said he had been over to see her that morning of his murder, she admitted to seeing him murder your brother. Now though, Dobbae has been murdered as well. You may want to tell us everything you know about this supposed robbery. What initiative was there for Mister Dobbae to kill your brother, and eventually yourself?”

He had spoken quite quickly, as was usual for him, though Mister Genman seemed to have gotten every word. He looked down at his teacup in shock. “Mister Dobbae is the last living member of his family. His family was immensely rich, and so, they of course had very valuable things-” John already did not like where this was going. “-And one of those valuable items was a very old piece of very rare, priceless jewelry which had been in his family for several generations. He bet it on a losing side, and my brother and I won it. He was very sore about it, infuriated, he was not only mad, but going mad over its loss. So much so, he was acting diluted, swearing that my brother and I had stolen it from him, despite the fact that we had won it fair and square.”

“Did you ever at any point believe he showed signs of being willing to murder?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing only slightly.

“Now that you have gotten me to think about it, yes, I suppose there were a few signs. I suppose the reason I disregarded them was because my entire life I have been a bit shielded to those sort of things. I had never seen anyone as ill mannered as Mister Dobbae. At times I even found it difficult to believe his heritage. He did not behave as a well respected man should.” He replied, “There is one thing I do know, however, he was never to be trusted, and he had what was coming to him.”

Sherlock nodded slightly, “Then I suppose he must have that reputation within your community then.”

“Oh yes,” Mister Genman replied hastily, “Rumours spread quickly within our small community, though plenty of them seemed perfectly plausible when dealing with a man such as Mister Dobbae. Rumours included that he had money in the government.” He said.

“Money in the government?” Sherlock asked, as if he had not already known.

“Yes,” Our host confirmed, “One of my close acquaintances had gone looking into it as well, as he has a close relationship with several members of parliament, and he was able to find a small amount of evidence, but nothing large enough to convict him of doing so.”

“I warned Anna against becoming involved with him.” A female voice called from the doorway to the parlor. Sherlock and John each turned toward its source to find a tall, red head standing in the doorway, clad in a pair of black leather pants and a gray sequence shirt. She looked ready to go dancing in a club. She could not have been seventeen though, and so when Mister Genman saw her he froze up just a bit.

“Genevieve.” Mister Genman said sternly, “Must you dress in such ways before presenting yourself before guests?” He laughed whole heartedly though, “I apologise Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, this is my daughter, Genevieve Hamton Junior. After her mother-we’re a liberal family.”

Genevieve did a three hundred and sixty degree twirl as she came over and sat beside her father, and Sherlock immediately questioned, “You socialise regularly with Anna Dantane?”

“Yes, we are quite close friends. She may be a maid, but the only reason she is working at all is because per her father’s request before he died, she cannot receive her inheritance unless she works. She is actually quite wealthy.” She explained.

“Thank you for the thorough reply.” Sherlock said, his brows furrowed slightly. Genevieve was a real talker and he knew it already.

The way home was as warm and close as the way to Mister Genman’s manor was. The calm knee touching of the train as they sat across from one another, and the mess of body heat in their taxi as they pressed up against one another in the small space.

“It might be best for this situation, to make the close quarters more comfortable if we position ourselves in a different way.” Sherlock said after a moment of sitting in the back of the taxi, sides pressing up against one another uncomfortably. In the space of five seconds, Sherlock had extracted his arm from in between himself and John, and instead wrapped it around John’s shoulders in an intimate way, his eyes staying on John’s face. John continued to stare forward and ignore the hold Sherlock had on him, but Sherlock did not miss the rush of blood to his cheeks.

It was one in the afternoon when they returned to the flat and John immediately fled to his room, closing his door and collapsing against it as he released a deep breath.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, following John, coming to stand outside the previously slammed door. “John?” He called, knocking upon the door, “Are you alright?” For a moment, all he received in reply was a groan and the sound of John banging his head lightly against the door behind him.

“I’m fine, ‘Lock.” John replied, not feeling energized enough to even say Sherlock’s full name.

“You don’t sound okay.” Sherlock replied, his hand moving to hover above the door handle. Just as he was about to grab and turn it though, a knock came from the main entrance to their rooms. He abandoned John for just a moment, looking back at the door uneasily as he moved away from it. When he reached the main door, he pulled it open to reveal Misses Hudson at the door, “Yes?” Sherlock asked.

“You have a visitor.” She said, before looking Sherlock head to toe before adding, “I heard you two….banging around in there and thought to myself that I should most definitely knock.” Her eyebrows raised, “And then there was that groan I heard…it sounded suspiciously like John…should I ask your visitor to return at a different hour?”

“Oh, John might be sick I think, he locked himself in his room and he fell against the door. He is a doctor though, so I suppose he doesn’t need our attention, you can send my visitor in.” Sherlock said, a small smile appeared, looking very out of place upon the usually stoic features.

A small boy appeared from behind her, caked in dirt and mud, his clothing torn and frayed. He came in with a wide, triumphant look upon his face, “I gathered the information you were asking for Mister Holmes!” He said, his eyes sparkling upon his dirt clad face. He had to strain his neck in order to look up at Sherlock, but he was happy none the less as he said, “There was a hit on Mister Alexander Dobbae. It was put out by Mister Louis Camptly.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” Sherlock replied, handing him twenty euro. Daniel raced back out the door with it clasped firmly in his palm and Misses Hudson watched him leave before looking back at Sherlock. “What?” Sherlock asks, “He needs some honest work. I could never go down to the slums and question those men myself. They know and trust Daniel. They tell him the truth.”

“But you couldn’t offer him a shower?” She replied, “Did you see his hair? It looked solid with caked mud…poor boy.”

Sherlock did not justify his actions any further, instead heading back over to John’s door, leaning his shoulder against it. “John?” He asked, waiting a few minutes during which there was no reply. “John, are you okay?” He knocked lightly upon the door again. Misses Hudson had begun to head toward him, but he waved her to leave. She did, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock gently clasped the door knob and turned it, the door immediately opening for him. John was laying in his bed, sat up with an open journal in his lap. Once John noticed Sherlock was there he slammed the journal closed and threw it into a drawer of his nightstand.

“Excuse me Sherlock, since when does silence mean ‘Come in?’” He asked in an irritated tone, his eye brows furrowed.

“I was afraid you might be ill, John.” Sherlock replied, “I wanted to ensure you were not in need of my assistance.” John noticed the look of genuine concern upon Sherlock’s face, and it allowed his irritation to fade. He looked up at Sherlock silently for a moment, searching his face. For a moment John swore he could see love on Sherlock’s face again, but he dismissed it yet again, knowing it could not be.

“Thank you for the concern, Sherlock.” He said, “I’ll be out in twenty minutes to make you lunch.”

“You do not have to if you do not wish to.” Sherlock replied.

“I wish to.” John said, smiling at Sherlock, “Now you should go and think, or…I don’t know, do Sherlock things.” Sherlock nodded hesitantly as he headed back out the door, and just as he was going over the threshold he turned back and peeked his head back in through the door.

“Oh, John, Mister Louis Camptly put a hit out on Mister Dobbae not too long ago. I suppose Mister Camptly is the man we’re looking for now.”

“So, to recap…we also have enough evidence to have the Member of Parliament who was taking payments arrested, correct?”

“Yes, I left the papers in the locked drawer, but I hid the key again. I will tip off the police when the time comes.” He went to leave again before John called his name, “Yes?” He asked, his head returning through the door once more.

“Thank you for coming to check on me.” John said, willing his face to remain stoic. He watched as Sherlock smiled slightly and exited the doorway. He could hear the door click shut when Sherlock closed it, and he immediately grabbed his journal back from the drawer and began to scribble furiously into it. He described the look upon Sherlock’s face when he had come to see if he had been okay or not. His eyes had shown emotion when he looked at John, his eyebrows had shown concern. He had breathed deeply through his nose, and he had had his lips slightly parted.

John could still see it in his mind’s eye. He was so taken with the image that he continued to think about it for a while before finally continuing to think about the matter at hand.

In five more minutes John pushed himself up from his bed and grabbed his laptop from its perch upon his chair and took his with him out of his room. He sat it upon the table in front of where Sherlock was sat, and he left it there and continued onward toward the kitchen.

“I’m bored.” Sherlock said, “We already know who did what. How boring.” He reclined his chair dramatically before saying, “John, can you make me tea as well?”

“What’s the magic word?” John asked, pouting, but already taking out the tea kettle and beginning to fill it with water anyway. He put it on the heat before taking out some ingredients for their two lunches and waiting for Sherlock to say please.

“Please.” Sherlock said, prompting John to smile in the other room.

“The kettle’s on, Sherlock.” He replied, beginning to work on the lunch while he waited for it to howl. By the time he had placed their lunches on plates and brought them to the table Sherlock had already relocated to it, reading the paper as he waited for his tea. “Do you want some toast on the side?” John asked, as he poured hot water into tea cups and began to seep the teabags.

“No thank you,” Sherlock replied, “I am already eating more than I usually would.”

John brought the tea to the table before taking his seat across from Sherlock, trying to look as though he had not noticed when their knees rubbed again one another’s. He looked up at Sherlock’s face for a moment as they each took their first sip of tea, and Sherlock looked up at him as well after he had placed his tea cup back down. “We should do something together to pass the time. Since the case is about wrapped up.”

“I would actually quite enjoy that, Sherlock.” He answered, “What exactly did you have in mind?” He asked a question of his own in return, taking a bite of his lunch.

“I am actually not quite sure, I was hoping you might have some ideas of your own…” Sherlock replied, picking up his lunch, staring at it for a moment before placing it back down upon his plate and taking another sip of his tea. “I had thought about walks and the opera house not too far down the street…”

“Please Sherlock, do not simply play with your food. Eat it.” John reminded him lowly, with a slightly stern look upon his face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but finally took a firm bite out of his lunch, hastily wiping his mouth with a napkin afterward in a rare show of cleanliness. His looked up at John who was now looking down, and studied his face, nothing showing up but faint amusement. “That is if you won’t be too busy going out on dates then. I suppose now that you exited your previous relationship, you’ll be looking for someone new. You’ll barely have time for me.” Sherlock said, more to himself than to John, knowing quite well that if it came between himself and a lady, John would surely choose the lady.

“I will always have time for you,” He quickly replied, “And plus, I’m not sure I’ll be making attempts at dating any longer. I have better things to be doing.”

“Then I suppose you have better things to be doing than spending your precious time with me.”

“Spending my time with you is the better thing to be doing.” Their eyes met and John smiled slightly. He had not any idea what had been running itself through Sherlock’s mind, and why Sherlock found himself to be so unimportant in John’s life. It simply was not true. Sherlock’s eyes were searching John’s face continuously once more, Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed only slightly as he took another sip of tea-still not breaking the gaze they shared.

Sherlock remained silent after that reassurance John had given him, picking up his newspaper and hiding his face behind it slightly as he ate and drank.

Later that night as John was heading to bed he happened to realise that he had not checked on Sherlock, who happened to have been sitting in the living room thinking for quite some time. He had taken to ensuring that Sherlock went to bed before certain hours, and so he headed into the sitting room to find Sherlock sitting in his reclined chair, fingers pressed together, eyes barely open yet he seemed to still be thinking quite furiously. As John approached him, Sherlock reached out to him and grasped John’s wrist.

“You remember, John, as you were there, the adventure in which a man had murdered the abusive husband of the woman he loved…and I let them go, pretending I had never known.” Sherlock said, “Well if I am to forgive the murder of one evil man, why should I not forgive murder of evil men in general? Why should I not let Louis go as well?”

“I suppose you should…speak to Louis before you make a decision concerning his deserving mercy or not…” John answered, “Now come on, you need to go to sleep now.” He said, moving to grip Sherlock under the arms, attempting to bring him up and out of the recliner.

“John, stop.” Sherlock said, “I wish to remain here for a bit longer.” He added, though he could not struggle against John very well, being quite malnourished and underweight due to his eating habits or lack thereof. He could not make John release him. “Let me go, John.” He said, though he was already quite sure the resistance was futile. John could tend to be quite determined once he made a decision, and at the moment he had decided that Sherlock was going to go to sleep.

“Sherlock, you need to go to bed.” John insisted, “If you stay up now, and I go to bed and leave you to your own devices, next thing I know I’ll be waking up to you playing violent violin at three in the morning again.”

“John…” Sherlock said seriously, looking up at John, “Will you come with me?”

John froze, eye brows furrowed in confusion, searching Sherlock’s face for signs, “You mean…to bed with you? Sherlock…” He was a bit in shock to have Sherlock ask him something like that so suddenly. He really hoped Sherlock meant to sleep together and not…to sleep with one another. “You mean…”

“To sleep…” Sherlock replied, tugging at John’s arm, “I want you to come with me.”

“I…I suppose so,” He said, and just like that Sherlock allowed himself to be hoisted up and led to his own bedroom. John was already in his nighttime garb, and so he covered his eyes while Sherlock changed into something more comfortable. He definitely did not peek or even think about peeking; after all, Sherlock was one of the world’s most observant men. Sherlock would surely notice, and that would not go well for John at all.

It was when Sherlock climbed into bed and John heard the bed bounce that he uncovered his eyes and climbed in after him. It was difficult, but John was determined to remain as platonic as possible. He stayed still as Sherlock gripped his wrist with both hands and slowly drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up it was bright and he was being spooned. He groaned. Sherlock’s arms were wound tightly around his waist, and Sherlock’s head was laid against his bare back. He could feel Sherlock’s deep, slow breaths against his shoulder, and knew that he was still asleep. He stayed still, hoping that Sherlock would wake up soon, because being held by Sherlock this way was giving him a problem.

Suddenly he felt Sherlock’s breathing speed up only a little bit, and felt a slight fluttering against the skin of his back, which he could only assume to be Sherlock’s eyelashes. Contrary to what he expected would transpire, Sherlock maintained his tight grip and only moved his body around to a more comfortable position before going slack against John again. He was still awake, but now his eyelashes fluttered against John’s neck instead.

Perhaps he could indulge him, he thought. He stopped himself. Maybe, he thought, maybe not. Maybe Sherlock was just too in shock to move.

Maybe though, he wanted to be in that situation. Maybe he didn’t though. John’s hand was shaking as he raised it slightly. Time slowed.

He rose the hand and reached it over his shoulder, finding Sherlock’s cheek and running his hand across it.

Sherlock’s forehead met the back of John’s head, buried in his blonde hair. Slowly but surely a kiss was planted in the very middle of the back of John’s neck, gentle, soft, and hesitant but sweet. “John…” He whispered into it, lips rubbing against the warm, bare skin.

John could not do this to Sherlock. He couldn’t let Sherlock hold him and kiss him when John wasn't even sure he'd ever be brave enough to be honest with the world about how he felt. Sherlock did not know who he was, and he deserved a better lover than John, a lover who would not lie to and hide from the world, a lover who would share the truth with not only him, but with the world. He gripped Sherlock’s hands and pulled them away from one another, breaking the hold Sherlock had on him before getting out of bed and leaving the room. He went to his own and changed.

When he passed by Sherlock’s room again he saw Sherlock still laying there, back toward the door, wrapped up in the sheets. He went past and left the house promptly, not knowing exactly what to do. He did not want to hurt Sherlock by giving him what he wanted, but he also did not want to hurt Sherlock by not giving him what he wanted.

He sat in a local café and ordered a cup of tea, not wanting to make his own tea at home because Sherlock was there and would surely be angry that he had jumped out of bed and abandoned him earlier. He sat at a table alone and took his cell phone from his pocket.

He thought Sherlock might have texted him or attempted to call him by now, but Sherlock had done neither. He stared down at his phone guiltily. He hadn’t even had sex with him, and he still felt outrageously guilty about leaving him in bed that morning after indulging in a few intimate touches. They weren’t even half as inappropriate as what they could have done, not counting sex.

He gulped, he did not like thinking about ‘sex’ and ‘Sherlock’ at the same time. It gave him mental images, such as Sherlock sweaty and gasping beneath him, his legs wrapped around John’s waist as he allowed John inside him… John shook the thoughts from his head.

_John? –SH_

_Did I anger you? –SH_


	3. A Withheld Opinion

John stared down at the phone, chest aching at the thought that Sherlock thought he might be mad at him. He wished Sherlock would never think such a thing. If anything John was extremely upset with himself. He thought it might simply be better if he were to come out and say this to Sherlock rather than hiding it, and having Sherlock figure it out for himself. He opened the phone again and clicked to reply.

_I could never be mad at you, Sherlock. –JW_

He closed the phone again and took a sip of tea, waiting patiently for the telltale sound which would tell him that Sherlock had replied, but it never came. He finished his tea and left the café, wondering why Sherlock had yet to reply. He was a bit too nervous to return to the flat and face his flat mate though, so he walked around the area just a bit, enjoying the sunlight of the English morning. He was having immensely conflicting feelings.

It all came down to the fact that when John could have admitted to Sherlock, he lied instead before marching from their home. He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock but every time he wanted to tell Sherlock the truth he wanted to shield him from it. He was not sure what he needed to do.

John wanted to clear his conscience by telling Sherlock the truth, and so he decided that that was what he would do. He headed toward the flat with purpose, his face blank yet his nervous emotions raging beneath the surface. He returned to 221B Baker Street and unlocked the door, relieved to find that Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found. He was in quite an emotional frenzy and had rather not end up accidentally offending her. He headed up to his and Sherlock’s rooms, hands slightly shaking, his head slightly reeling. He entered their rooms to find it all quite quiet.

He nervously headed through the kitchen, toward Sherlock’s room, entering to find him nowhere, the sheets upon his bed messed up and his phone sitting upon it. John’s last sent message was upon the lit up screen, and it was then, as John rounded to the other side of the bed that he found a small shot of blood upon the carpet.

There was a folded note upon the night table: _Come at Once, Doctor Watson. –Louis_

Of course, it was a note that would barely tell a law enforcement officer anything. Louis Camptly knew though that Watson knew who he was, and would be able to find him, already knowing his last name. He headed quickly to the sitting room where he looked through the papers scrambled upon the table, haphazardly up upon one another in no particular order. He came to the papers Sherlock had written on the subject of Louis Camptly, his personal information, murders Sherlock thought may be connected to him and countless other things.

John grabbed his gun, hiding it on his person before heading out the flat door and into the hallway, down the stairs and out the front door. All the while he brought Sherlock’s paper with him, and when he grabbed a taxi he read off the address to the driver immediately in his desperation to reach Sherlock as soon as possible.

The taxi could never have raced quickly enough, as John was practically biting his fingernails in his nervousness. When they pulled up to the large manor situated on the outskirts of London the sun was drawing close to the centre of the sky, beaming down upon John’s hair and warming his skin. He paid the driver and headed immediately toward the front door, and when he was about to knock on it he found that when he put pressure upon the door to do so it opened.

John found the open door suspicious and drew his gun before entering, keeping it ready to be fired if necessary.

He swept his eyes over the larger of the two living areas and proceeded toward the kitchen, the marble and expensive finishes where bright white and they practically burned his retinas. Nothing was in the kitchen and so he quickly exited, heading through several other living rooms, stopping to look beneath couches and inside closets, beneath tables and behind large pieces of furniture.

Now was not the time to allow his wounds to slow him down, his cane was used to the best of his ability with the small amount of time afforded to him. Sherlock could be in terrible danger or perhaps he could even have perished by now at the hands of that scoundrel.

The thoughts racing through John’s head caused his heart to beat out of control with nervousness, anger welling up within his gut, curses being whispered consistently beneath his breath. This was the second time that John had had this feeling creep into his bones and hold him hostage-the first time being when Sherlock had jumped off that building and John had seen death embrace his thin frame in its cold and eternal bond.

As John was about to walk one of the grand stairways in the front entrance hall and ascend to the second floor he paused, gripping the wood of the exquisitely detailed, carved handrail. In that moment the adrenaline of the rush to the house wore off, and for a moment as it melted away all that it left behind was a fear which gripped his heart with its claws bore.

He stayed there silently, breathing deeply for a few moments before he began the slow and solemn trek upwards, his left hand gripping the handrail so tightly that it had become pale, and his right hand gripping his cane. He was a bit terrified to see what he might be facing, and although he could call Lestrade, Louis would be expecting that. He had to be brave and find Sherlock, no matter how much the situation was affecting him. Situations such as this had begun to affect him much differently than they had before Sherlock’s fall. Once he reached the landing he realised precisely how deep the silence was on the long hallway. He attempted to make a quick deduction of his own.

Louis would likely not risk bringing Sherlock into a master bedroom, due to the high probability for bloodshed. As he suspected the master bedroom was dim and empty of life. There were several bathrooms attached to the hallway and one by one they came up empty, then he came to a guest bedroom in which he found a ghastly sight.

Sherlock’s beaten and mangled body was sprawled upon the floor, his hair looked wet, but at the same time matted by partially dry blood which clung and made his curls looked disfigured. He was still in his pajamas, the material loose around his body, stained red in some areas and torn in some others.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw a blurred figure appear from the bathroom in surprise-of course, Louis had expected that John would appear with policemen behind him, sirens ablaze, reverberating through the walls and into his guestroom. Louis was so taken by surprise that he made the mistake of hesitating after exiting the bathroom, and before he could even take out his gun a sharp pain had erupted in his forehead before the room went dark and his body crumpled to a heap on the hard wood floor.

John didn’t need to check in order to know that Louis Camptly was dead; having shot him straight through what some would refer to as the third eye. The bullet would have gone straight through the brain, and was either lodged within it, or the skull, perhaps even the area behind him. All that mattered though, was the lanky, underweight, blood stained ragdoll on the opposite side of the room.

John did not glance at the blonde Louis twice, he glanced at him once before rushing immediately to Sherlock’s side, taking out his cell phone and getting Lestrade on the other line, and as it rings he feels a weak pulse, so sluggish and fragile John is sweating, his breath uneven as he barely registers Lestrade answer the phone. His voice shakes as well as he forces the words out, “Lestrade, Sherlock is badly hurt, we’re at the city home of Louis Camptly.” The name is enough for Lestrade, who knows where the house is well, and when he asks John why they were there, “Sherlock was taken from our home, Louis took him-I’ll explain the rest when you come but call paramedics, I haven’t adequate medical supplies on my person at this moment to treat wounds of this magnitude.

“No, he is not conscious.” He adds when Lestrade inquires.

The next two hours pass quickly, explaining the full situation to Lestrade as the paramedics loaded Sherlock onto a stretcher. This included the rush to the hospital and continuously being called by Lestrade to discuss the situation. In order to protect Sherlock and John from being looked down on, John told him there was evidence in their flat and he had permission to search for it. He told him to look specifically for the blood on the carpet and the handwritten note on the nightstand whose handwriting could most definitely be matched to Louis’.

At two in the afternoon John found himself in the hospital. He was in the waiting room as they gave Sherlock emergency attention. Although usually John would have wished to be with Sherlock and help treat him as well, today he was in shock from the situation. John was sat in a stiff plastic chair, shaking with adrenaline again. He felt as though he needed to run, to do something or anything to dispel the excess energy. He could not.

There was a table of magazines on either side of John and one in front as well. The receptionist of the emergency room was a brunette whose face was caked with makeup, her sparkly pink nails agitating him as she said the same line a hundred times. John was on edge, every small inconvenience making him cringe, his jaw grinding on end, his eyes narrowed, his eyebrows furrowed. There was a man talking loudly on his cell phone with a high pitched squeaky voice and a baby crying from across the room. The television was on to a rather loud opera, blaring throughout the room.

John breathed deeply until he decided that there was too much happening for him to survive the waiting room for much longer with Sherlock on his mind. He pushed up off of his chair and headed for the nearest secluded hallway.

There was a black metal bench and a lone snack machine to the side, the dim lighting in this hallway not casting much light upon the smooth grey walls. John sat and attempted to release stress from his system-he realised quickly that that was simply impossible though, as he would never truly be calm until he saw Sherlock’s pretty blue eyes open and responsive. He carded his hand through his hair, releasing a rather large breath of air. He could have sat there for hours for all he knew, doctors and nurses occasionally passing him by, sending him the occasional glance.

It was eight o clock when a nurse approached him and told him that visiting hours were over and that he would have to leave unless he was in the immediate family of a patient. He in turn asked her about Sherlock. She looked surprised but hurried off, gesturing for him to give her one moment and that she would inquire as to Sherlock’s condition.

John sat silently for another moment before the blonde returned with a manila folder and sat down beside him, two feet down the bench to give him space. She began to speak, “Holmes, Sherlock … I’m skipping over personal details past that for sake of time … Fractured wrist, two broken ribs, one of his ankles just…looks demolished. He suffered some trauma to the head. He’s in a coma.” John felt his heart sink as she continued, “Doctors think it could last two weeks to a month, and that’s if he heals quickly.” She paused.

“But he will…wake up?” He said, “There’s no question that he will wake up?”

“It’s highly unlikely that he won’t.” She replied, “He isn’t brain dead, we know that, he…and his brain are very much alive.” She tried to send him a slight smile, as she could see the sadness that had overtaken John. “Some coma patients sustain worse injuries than Sherlock’s, so I see it fit to tell you he has only an incredibly low chance of not coming out of this.” John released a deep breath.

“Must I leave?” He asked uneasily, “He’s my…” He realised then that he had no idea what to say. Who was Sherlock? Was he his best friend or his boyfriend? Was he somewhere in between?

“I’m afraid unless you are his brother…or…civil partner, you’ll have to leave.” She replied.

“Right…” He replied, “I apologise for bothering you for so long, I’m sure you had many other things to be doing.” He smiled sadly at her, nodding his head slowly as he turned away from her and began to head back down the grey hallway. It was when he sat down in their sitting room across from Sherlock’s empty seat that a tear made its way to his left eye, the scene achingly familiar. Too many times he had sat across from Sherlock’s empty chair. Why had he left Sherlock alone in the flat that morning, he wondered?

Why had he not accepted what Sherlock was attempting to show him and stay there with him for a while? He rubbed the tear from his eye and sat for a while before heading to his room and collapsing upon his bed in exhaustion. Even laid upon his soft mattress, his warm sheets and blankets embracing him, he had trouble calming his racing thoughts. The orange street light was streaming in to disturb him as well.

He had barely registered the sunlight on his face when he awoke the next morning, his eyes opening wearily to the world before quickly closing once more. In a strange way John felt as if the entire game was just one large assault, and for a moment he did not even want to leave the warm refuge of his bed. He did not want to be strong or brave, to be courageous or determined. For the first time in a long while-perhaps since the day after Moriarty forced Sherlock to take the fall-John lay in his bed until an hour past his waking. When he did brave exiting the blankets he did so sluggishly, no determination fueling any fire. He felt cold and vulnerable.

A shower was taken and clothing was put on. The kettle went on; the tea was drunk in a hurry. The actions were mechanical, and as he carried them out he felt a strange deadness inside himself. Washing his hair, putting on socks, pants, and trousers, filling the kettle, drinking the tea-it was all habitual, not a true expression of being alive. Things anyone could do whether or not they were dead on the inside.

John left, sweeping uncharacteristically by-even when he heard Mrs. Hudson calling him when she heard him come down. He was out the door immediately and returned to the hospital where he was finally allowed to see Sherlock.

As a nurse was leading him-a red head-this time, his throat felt dry, his right hand shaking as it grasped his cane tightly. The white linoleum was irritatingly bright, the sunlight coming in through the window at the end of the hall and lighting up the smooth flooring. When they entered the room the sight of Sherlock made his heart sink, that unpleasant sorrow grasping it and pulling the strings tight again. Sherlock lay looking so eerily peaceful, as if he were simply asleep. There was a stitched up wound beside his left eye, though he looked so at peace with his eye lashes dark and lush against his bright skin.

Sherlock was in a room alone, and there was a large window to the right of the door which poured sunlight onto the only chair. This one wasn’t plastic, it was wooden with a bit of cheap material padding-it was rough and a cliché shade of blue. John sat and the nurse lingered for a few moments to check on Sherlock before leaving him alone with him.

John found himself staring, unable to look away from his bestfriend-boyfriend-whatever-he-may-be. The door was open, but they were the last room on the hallway and there were two doors, an inner, then a small five foot entrance with a doorway to a bathroom on the opposite side of the windows, and then a second door. No one would see inside the room unless they came to check on Sherlock, which meant that John didn’t have to be embarrassed. He moved his chair as close to the bed as possible and took Sherlock’s lifeless hand, the unbandaged left one.

He cradled the hand in both as of his then, and he spoke to Sherlock. “I am so angry at myself.” He began simply, “I feel as though if I hadn’t been a complete and total imbecile, than perhaps you wouldn’t have been put in this situation. I feel as though I failed to stop it, and almost as if it was my job in some way, but I realise now that you _are_ in some way my responsibility. It isn’t just a feeling I had.”

“I couldn’t stomach that feeling, Sherlock, as if I had failed you-and I know I did fail you somehow. I wonder why I ran away when you kissed me on the neck. The sad thing is, that at the end of the day I know why I did: Because I am not as strong as I like to make pretend. It takes you to send me crumbling to my knees, and for some reason that scared me out of my own wits. I had always been searching for a perfectly beautiful woman, but suddenly I found myself content-no ecstatic to stay with you, and all I wanted to be was closer to you, and that scared me too. I wonder what will happen when your eyes open.”

“I want to hold on to you for as long as possible. I cannot fathom the idea of living without you, in fact, when you took that fall I feel I might have soon followed you into the darkness had I not discovered you were never there. No matter how false the situation turned out to be, it was one of the truest lacks of emotions I’d felt: Dead. I felt nothing, for anything or anyone. At first I had shown it, and then after a year or so I attempted to hide the emptiness I felt inside. I really did try.”

“I couldn’t.” He hesitantly raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed it, kissed the knuckles and each of the fingers, shocked to feel their sudden warmth. In fact, at this moment Sherlock felt warmer in comatose than in consciousness. John let his lips kiss his hand once more before laying the hand down upon the bed and holding it there for a moment before releasing it. He leant down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead before sitting down in the chair again. Luckily he had finished, since just then he heard the footsteps of a man quickly approaching, and in strode Mycroft, a nurse, and Lestrade.

“Good morning, Mycroft, Lestrade…” He said lowly, as the two stood around the bed. The nurse had begun to check his vitals, his IVs, and adjusting the blanket, pulling it a bit higher before leaving the three men around the bed, all staring at Sherlock quietly. John looked up at the other two men silently a moment later, expectantly.

“Well, nothing’s truly happening around here,” Lestrade said slowly, followed by a sigh, “I’m going to go find a snack machine or something.” He added, patting Mycroft on the back before hightailing it out of the room. There was a small silence in the room after he’d gone, and Mycroft said nothing and so after a few moments John’s eyes drifted back to Sherlock’s face. The two men looked at the brunette for a few more moments before Mycroft spoke up.

“I expected you’d be here. I expect you were also here yesterday-all day, yesterday.” He said lightly, his eyes still trained upon Sherlock. John, though, had been surprised and looked back up toward Mycroft.

“I was at the hospital from two until eight.” John replied, watching as Mycroft nodded and moved from the foot of Sherlock’s bed until he was on the opposite side than John’s. He was still as eloquent, and as formally dressed as he was each time John saw him. He was in a suit and tie, his hands buried deep within his pockets. John watched him curiously for a moment.

“I expected that of you.” Mycroft replied, “You obviously weren’t there when it happened, otherwise you both would be in the hospital or worse. John, you are a soldier.” He said the last few words with a bit of bite. “But you can’t protect my brother.”

“He has not been the most…caring of his own health and we’ve all known it.” Mycroft continued, “Of course he is a genius, but sometimes the most intelligent people can lack common sense in certain areas,” he added, “John, you connect with him and I could see even through the few moments I saw you two together that he would soon cling to you like glue. John you mean a great deal to him, but you can’t protect him when he makes mistakes. You can hope he doesn’t get himself killed, and when he falls to pieces you can try to put him back together.”

“Having Sherlock mean something to you, is a very dangerous endeavor for your emotions.” He continued to talk even then, “It will continue to be difficult whether he is a friend, he is your bestfriend, or he is a brother or a colleague, the people he comes into contact with--”

“Why are you telling me this?” John interrupted, causing Mycroft to finally look up from Sherlock and make eye contact with John. Suddenly it was more similar to a duel to stare one another down than simple eye contact. Mycroft breathed deeply, his facial expression slightly blank; John’s slightly pained as they stare one another down.

“Can you handle the relationship you pursue?”

John was silent until, “I wasn’t aware I was pursuing anything.”

Mycroft’s lips broke into a smile and a small chuckle as he stared down toward Sherlock again, almost unable to look back toward John in fear he may burst out into full on laughter. Mycroft didn’t reply for a long while, the two men sitting in an awkward silence with the coma patient between them, all dark curls and eyelashes. Suddenly, “Are you sure about that, John?”

John thought honestly for a moment, “No.”

Mycroft took another long pause, “Do you love my brother, John?”

John thought about all the years he spent with Sherlock, all of the cases, the happy moments, the tea, the crying when Sherlock was hurt or seemingly gone. He saw his years pass, and suddenly all he knew was Sherlock, as if nothing before him had ever held any meaning. He breathed in deeply as the realisation dawned upon him, “Yes.”


	4. Yours and Mine, Held Fast with Twine

A week and a half of complete and utter boredom and loneliness leaves a man with plenty of time to think. Over a week and a half John had tried, racked his head many, many times over, and yet he still could not pinpoint the exact moment when he realised that he and Sherlock were completely and irreversibly bound to one another. They had slipped into such an intricate relationship so easily and flawlessly that John had not even realised it taking place. When Sherlock had allowed him to believe that he was dead he had felt the stitches that had bound them together tear apart to ache and bleed.

It was less of a simple break of stitch; it was as if he had undergone an amputation. He had lost half of himself, and his ability to think and to function was so immensely impaired he had felt as if unable to go on past the loss. It had felt so real, so true to feel so helpless and hopeless because it had been real-because Sherlock had allowed him to believe he really was dead. He knew though, that he could not allow himself to dwell so strongly on the past, that was then and this was now. Sherlock was alive and needed his attention.

John was there when it happened, as he had spend almost every moment of his available time at Sherlock’s bedside, holding his hand and speaking to him even though he could not hear him. John could not describe the joyous rush of ecstatic emotion which had shot itself through his body when he saw the thick, dark eyelashes flutter slightly before pulling back and revealing the beautiful pale blue eyes that John had so terribly missed throughout the past few weeks. The single chair beside the bed was still moved quite close to Sherlock, so when he noticed him awaken he was able to immediately reach out to grab his hand.

At the feel of his hand being grabbed Sherlock looked through hazy eyes, turning toward John as his vision slowly cleared. As Sherlock saw John’s lips curve up just slightly in a small smile, he gave a squeeze to John’s hand as if to prove he was there. Sherlock’s face remained one of mild agitation due to the slight pain that remained, though he was glad to see John, “John…How long has it been?” He asked.

“You were in a coma for a week and a half.” John replied, standing up, but continuing to hold Sherlock’s hand tightly, “I’m going to go tell a nurse that you’ve awoken.” He hesitated to release the hand, almost afraid that if he placed it down it would suddenly disappear. He paused, staring in Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, and decided to be mature about his feelings, kissing Sherlock’s knuckles once before placing the hand upon the bed, Sherlock watching the entire silent display of affection. John then disappeared into the hallway.

At the end of the hallway he found none other than the blonde nurse who had helped him the first night of Sherlock’s stay. She paged the doctor and came to check on Sherlock’s vitals.  He sat back in his chair as she began to do so, and after she had finished she smiled at both Sherlock and John before leaving the room. A few moments passed before the doctor entered the room.

The time which the doctor spent in the room was relatively short, though he did mention that he would have to keep Sherlock in the hospital for at least four more days to watch him. John sat by while the Doctor explained some things to them before the Doctor left them alone together once again. Sherlock slowly looked back over at John, his eyes saying something that John could not understand. “Sherlock, what are you feeling at the moment?” John asked curiously, “You look a bit…uncomfortable.”

“You should never leave anyone in a bed…” He replied. “I’m glad for it this time though, because you were safe and able to save me…what concerned me is why you left me alone in a bed in the first place.”

“For god’s sake Sherlock, stop phrasing it that way!” He said, though he did smile slightly, “It’s not as if we…” He paused, “Either way, I didn’t leave you alone in bed because I did not want you to be acting the way you had; it was that I was unsure at the time and I needed to clear my head.” He looked down at his hands, deciding it was the best time to be honest. He took a deep breath, “Sherlock, I was...scared.”

“I know.” Sherlock replied, looking at him a bit mischievously, “You thought you could ever trick me, John?” His slight smile widened.

John sat gaping slightly, “Why did you not say anything?”

“You have a heart which prevents you from continuing to lie, especially to your bestfriend. Though after how you just acted, I believe you are starting to see a relationship with me in a different light than you had previously. My thoughts were that I didn’t need to confront you, as you would come to me, admit your feelings and expect me to be clueless and upset. At which point, I would reveal precisely that which I just unveiled. *Voici!”

John’s eyebrows were furrowed in disbelief, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Joke’s on me, huh?” He said, suddenly finding himself grinning, "But it's okay now, I believe. Maybe something good came out of all this," He gestured toward Sherlock in the hospital bed and the numerous machines he was hooked up to, "I don't think I'd be afraid to tell the world I love you anymore, because I was reminded of life without you and how positively horrid it was.”

“John, for me a life without you is just as horrible if not more.”

“Sherlock...” He replied, “I do not doubt you. I promise that should I be given the chance to, I would show you how much you mean to me.” He got out of his seat then, “It is five o clock though Sherlock, and I have a surgery to assist at six. I really must be going.” He got up and looked down at Sherlock, looming over him for a moment, Sherlock staring him in the eyes.

He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead before he had to leave. As he was turning to leave Sherlock grabbed his arm, pulling him back silently. John looked at him to see he was seemingly pleading, and so John leant down slightly to ask what the matter was. Sherlock took the opportunity to lay his hands upon John’s shoulders, pulling their lips together in a short kiss which quickly ended with John smiling down at him. “I wish I could stay too.” He whispered to Sherlock, before kissing Sherlock’s cheek as well and pulling himself free.

As he exited the room he knew though, that he was never free from Sherlock Holmes, and he never would be. As he momentarily glanced back to see Sherlock watching him leave, he felt this flutter emanate through his body, and he knew that he would never want to be free from him. The mere thought itself nearly destroyed him, many, many times.

The bright lights of the hall were agitating as he had grown a bit used to the dim lights of Sherlock’s room. It was then that he noticed that Molly was quickly approaching, and he greeted her. She smiled, “Hello to you as well John, I asked Louise to tell me when Sherlock woke up so that I could come visit him…” He smiled and nodded at her words. She continued, “Louise is a friend of mine, she’s a nurse here. She’s the blonde one, over there.” She pointed to Louise, the blonde nurse who had helped John several times throughout Sherlock’s stay, including the first night.

“Oh yes, she and I have spoken several times. She’s been a great help.” He ignored the strangely giddy look which overtook Molly’s face, passing it off as her being…strange. He continued to walk smiling at Louise as he passed, and continuing out. It was not until seven thirty that he returned, Louise was checking on Sherlock and getting him fresh blankets.

Louise smiled at John as he sat in the seat right by Sherlock. Louise grinned brightly now, “I think I’ll leave you two alone now, then.” She took her clip pad and left the room, before looking over her shoulder, “Oh, and John, if you want to stay after eight…I don’t know you’re here.” She closes the door, leaving Sherlock staring up at John with a slight grin upon his face. John took Sherlock’s hand and pulled it into his own lap, holding it in both of his hands as he leant down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“Sherlock.” John sighed happily, “I pray you’re feeling well.”

“Yes,” He replied, “I’m much better.”

John was a bit too nervous to speak, silently watching Sherlock who looked back at him similarly. Their hands clung to one another tightly, their eyes meeting one another quite intimately in a quiet understanding. Sherlock squeezed the hand that John had had intertwined with his. “Molly…well…’made a move’ on me tonight.” Sherlock said, “I pushed her away and told her that I was in love with you.” He said bluntly, showing his usual disregard for beating around the bush.

John paused for a moment in pleasant shock, “I am so very honoured to hold such a high position in your eyes.” He said with a smile, “And I hope you’ve realised by now that you do hold as a high a position in my own,” His voice dropped to a whisper, “I love you too.”

The two stared at one another for a moment, John attempting to build up the nerve to do something. He felt so nervous and childish, as though he were an adolescent, wanting so much to kiss Sherlock, to hold him, tell him again and again that he loved him…he was just so nervous. At the moment he just wanted to give Sherlock another kiss like the one he’d been given before he left for that surgery. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand as he leaned forward and smiled at the curly haired man. Sherlock’s eyes were bright and blue as he stared up intent and expectantly.

John licked his lip nervously before leaning down further and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s temple for a few moments before he broke away again, staring down at Sherlock, whose lips were pink and his eye lashes were dark and full and every detail was perfect in its own way as John admired him, his left, unoccupied hand moving to caress Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock glanced up at John once more, taking in his sight as well before yawning unexpectedly. John smiled at the sight of Sherlock acting adorable, and John realised with a start that all along Sherlock had acted incredibly adorable, but John hadn’t been looking out for it. Sherlock looked up at him seriously, “I expect you’ll be leaving soon, but give me one-” Suddenly the door opened and two women entered, startling when they saw the intimate position of the two. John scrambled away from Sherlock and turned to see Louise…and Genevieve.

“I’m so sorry Mister Holmes! Doctor Watson! I should have knocked!” Genevieve apologised in her embarrassment.

“Perhaps you might also have put clothing on before coming to a hospital.” Louise commented.

“What’s wrong with my clothing, Blondie!” Genevieve pouted, shooing the nurse out, who reluctantly left. Genevieve released a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. She quickly collected herself, “As I mentioned earlier Mister Holmes, I am terribly sorry for interrupting your intimate moment.”

“I suppose it’s quite alright, seeing as visiting hours are drawing quickly to a close, and you may otherwise have not gotten to see me.” Sherlock paused, a thoughtful look coming over his face, though it passed just as quickly, “What is it you wish to discuss.”

“I came with my father’s gratitude,” She replied without hesitation, “He also sends his regret that you were injured helping him. He was also inclined to send payment, but he heard from a friend of a friend that you accept no such thing.” She paused, searching her person before pulling an envelope from seemingly nowhere and bringing it a bit closer to Sherlock, “My father would also love to invite you to a celebration, his fiftieth birthday.” She smiled, handing John the letter since Sherlock was still laying down in bed, “You’re both invited.”

“Thank you, Miss Hamdon.” Sherlock replied, “I am unsure if I will be able to attend, but send your father my thanks for the invitation. If I am able to attend I assume you will be taking RSVPs?”

She grinned, “Oh yes, we are.” She looked hesitantly between Sherlock and John before slowly backing herself up toward the door and sitting her hand on the knob, “Well I bet you two are waiting to get back to what you were doing previously, so I’ll just see myself out.” She smiled and left, the door closing the two men in together again. John went back to holding Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it before deciding to say something.

“I think it would be fun to attend a party, though I’m sure you’ll disagree.” He said, grinning at Sherlock, “Genevieve seemed quite enthusiastic about it.”

“Genevieve was excited prior to entering the room, and as her pupils were slowly returning to normal size as she spoke to us, I believe she may have been aroused while out in the hallway-not excited about the information she was about to give.” Sherlock replied, “In fact, I believe they may have been most dilated when she was looking at Louise, which leads me to believe Genevieve felt a sexual attraction to Louise.”

“Hmm…you really think?” John asked, finding it all quite strange himself, seeing as the two women had just been throwing insults at one another.

“I saw it plain as day on Genevieve’s face.” He replied, “Also, the way she leaned against the door, once straight after entering, and one right before leaving, it was a hint of nervousness upon her.” Sherlock paused, this time it was his turn to pull the held hand to his face and kiss John’s knuckles. “It is getting quite late, and Louise had informed me you had a surgery in the morning as well, so you had better be going if you wish to be adequately rested.”

“Well I will rest all the more adequately knowing you are well and awake.” John assured him, pecking Sherlock’s forehead. He lingered for a moment before leaving, looking back at Sherlock again the way he had the first time he left him awake in the hospital bed. Just like the last time, their eyes met.

“I love you, John.” Sherlock startled him, causing him to turn back once more. John hesitated in the door way before heading quickly back to Sherlock, taking his hand and staring down at his beautiful blue eyes again. He slowly leaned in with Sherlock already flittering those thick dark lashes of his, and when their lips came into contact again he buried his left hand in Sherlock’s hair, his right hand squeezing Sherlock’s left as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed a little bit more. By the time they had finally settled down and separated their lips they were both panting.

“I had better go.” John said, and checked his watch to see it was eight fifteen.

The next morning’s surgery was at eight, and so he would need to be at the hospital by seven to prepare, count tools, recount tools, mark the numbers, recount again. Preparing for a surgery was a very serious matter, if a doctor miscounts his tools, there could be horrific results, such as leaving a tool inside a patient. John, luckily, had never done this; however, he remembered vividly the look upon his professor’s face as he lectured them on the subject. He had also showed them some horrifying documentaries, men with two foot retractors left in their stomachs, women with molding sponges left in their chests. John still cringed in remembrance.

John turned around in the doorway, “I love you too, so much…” He hesitated again, wanting to stay but needing to leave. He breathed deeply before turning and closing the door behind him, walking out into the hall and was surprised to see Genevieve was still there, attempting to lean over one of the desks seductively, and Louise just happened to be sitting at the desk.

“Okay, okay.” He heard Louise say in resignation as he approached. “I will be your _date.”_ She said, gathering some folders and clipboards before standing up from the desk and turning from Genevieve in a final way before having a second thought, “Oh,” She added, turning back, “If I am going to accompany you, you had better not dress like…that. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Louise you just eliminated ninety nine point nine percent of my wardrobe!’ Well, I’m sure you can buy something, rich girl.” She pointed out again as Genevieve stared at her with big eyes, “Also, if you wear heels as high as the ones you’re wearing right now, I will personally rip your eyes from your skull."

Genevieve’s eyes remained incredibly large as she stared up at Louise, “I suppose your wish is my command.” At the words Louise’s face softened, though she still stumped away with a slip of paper Genevieve had hastily passed her.

Genevieve was turning to leave as well when she turned only to find herself face to face with John. She smiled, “Oh, Doctor Watson, I cannot believe you and Sherlock are already separating for the night! I pray you didn’t catch my entire exchange with Louise, I’ve found myself acting a bit irrational in her presence."

“Oh, well I have a surgery to perform in the morning.” John replied, “I was only just passing now, I hadn’t heard what you and Louise were discussing.

“I asked Louise to be my date to my father’s party. I will have to dress a bit more appropriately but--”

John cut her off, “How could you still want to go with her after she made fun of your choice of clothing…isn’t that a bit insulting?” John could not help but ask, as the words tumbled from his mouth involuntarily.

“I don’t know…I suppose it’s just that I know it’s true. I’ve kinda grown used to people telling that.”

“You should never grow used to people treating you like dirt, Miss Hamdon, because you are not dirt. You should demand the respect you deserve. If you like the way you dress, you need to stand up for the way you want to express yourself.” Genevieve looked up at him a bit sadly, nodding and turning away from John, her red curls bobbing up and down as she headed down the hallway, her sequence making her shine much too brightly in the brighter lights of the hallway. John went a different way to the exit of the hospital, going home and planning to go immediately to bed. His plans were foiled when he found Lestrade outside the door, waiting for him with a strange look upon his face.

“John, can I talk to you for a moment?” He asked John as John let him into the house, “It’s not about Louis by the way if you’re wondering.” He paused.

“Yes, I suppose you may.” John replied as they headed up the stairs, “Though what did happen with the death of Louis, you never exactly told me the end result.”

“He had kidnapped Sherlock; though I honestly did lie a bit in the report. I said you weren’t at the scene and an unnamed police officer shot Louis during a rescue attempt when they saw he had a gun.” Lestrade paused, “But that isn’t precisely what I’m here about.” John gestured for Lestrade to take a seat and he did, nodding when John offered to make tea. “Mycroft and I had a fight this afternoon, because he was being incredibly inconsiderate!”

John put the kettle on and returned, sitting across from Greg, “So you’ve come to talk to me about it?”

“Yes.” Lestrade said, “Honestly it had quite a bit to do with you two. Mycroft and I were obviously informed when Sherlock awoke, and I insisted that he accompany me to visit Sherlock, but Mycroft, he’s just so insensitive. He doesn’t seem to know what being a brother is, or sometimes…even…” Lestrade’s voice quieted and eventually stopped all together, “I just didn’t know who else to talk to about it, and I thought that since you also have experience dealing with Holmes men, you might be able to understand.”

“I can, Sherlock allowed me to believe he was dead for three years.” John said plainly with a blank look upon his face. “The only thing I can tell you is that your life will be hell with a Holmes, and you’ll need to get used to it.” John got up and got the tea as the water began to boil, coming back a moment later with two cups of tea, placing one on the table and giving one to Greg.

“I apologise, it’s simply that Mycroft…seemed so different from Sherlock when I first met him, but as time progressed I started to see that he wasn’t exactly what he seemed at all.” He paused, “I mean, sure, I am still very interested in him, and he seems to care about me and all. He just doesn’t seem to know how or when to show it. He doesn’t show it nearly often enough.” He paused, “I’m awfully sorry for whining your ear off.” John wasn’t overly fond of Lestrade, but they were in a quite similar situation, beside the fact that Mycroft and Lestrade were established.

“I am sure he’ll come around…” John replied, sipping his tea and trying to give Lestrade a small smile. He paused, “With a Holmes it will definitely take a while for him to realise something as emotional as this…try to send him hints…he will very easily realise if you send hints because their deduction almost never fails, and Mycroft is quite good at it as well.”

“I’ll try…” He said, hesitating, “When I did go to see Sherlock he had no visitors-of course I assumed you were at a surgery, the thing I thought was weird was that as I entered the room a brunette had exited in tears. A lady.” He said, “I wonder why that was.” He took another sip of tea. “I didn’t ask Sherlock about it of course, it seemed as though it would be a sensitive subject for a while.”

“He did share it with me as soon as I saw him after the surgery actually.” He didn’t go on. John still wasn’t very sure if Lestrade was anyone could treat like a friend, although Lestrade did seem to be quite pleasant toward him. He sighed, “That was Molly, an acquaintance of his.”

“Oh, I’m guessing that she liked Sherlock,” said he.

“She had attempted to appeal to him, yes.” John replied, “He told her that he loved me.”

“Well at least he was honest with you about that,” Lestrade commented, “It took Mycroft three months into our romantic relationship to tell me such a thing.” He sipped his tea, “You two aren’t even officially dating yet and you’ve gotten it.” Lestrade smirked, “I’m a bit jealous.”

“Well-” Suddenly a knock sounded at the door, cutting John off. “One moment Greg,” He said before pushing off from his chair and heading silently to the door, it opened to reveal Mycroft, standing looking more or less like himself with a strange almost frightened look upon his face. He didn’t ask before pushing past John and into the flat.

“Have you seen---” His eyes met the image of Greg in a seat in the living area, “Greg, Greg what are you doing here? Do you know how frightened I became when I came home and you were gone?” He paused as Lestrade looked at him in apology, “I thought you might have…” He paused, “I was afraid I may have pushed you ever the edge…”

“Never My! I was just a bit hurt! …I always love you…”

“I’m so sorry! I…I didn’t realise what I was doing!”

Greg got out of the seat and hurried over to Mycroft, who gathered him into his arms and held him there for a moment before kissing his temple and leading him toward the door. “Thanks for the tea John!” Lestrade called over his shoulder as Mycroft led him away, happily going with him after seeing precisely how much Mycroft cared about him. John closed the door behind him, very happy to have that over with, wanting to immediately head to bed and pass out

As he went about that business, he thought all the while, ‘Disappearing is a very strong hint.’


End file.
